


Child

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Murder, Child Neglect, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the body of a badly abused small boy is found, Morse and the team have to identify him and find his sister before she meets the same fate. At the same time, having missed the sergeants' exam because of his father's death, Morse is stuck on general duties, frustrated, and starting to think about resigning again. Fred decides to fight to have Morse made his bagman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt to write a longer, more involved story in the fandom, one with an actual mystery, although it's nowhere near as complex as the ones we get on the show. As for the funeral, it happens sometimes that detectives involved with a homicide case with an unidentified victim end up holding a service, especially when their John or Jane Doe is a child or teenager.
> 
> Warnings for child neglect, abuse, and murder (all offscreen). This one's darker than my usual work.

In a shadowy room, a little girl with lank dark hair crept to the side of an even younger boy lying still on a filthy blanket. "Wake up," she whispered, shaking him. Looking fearfully around, she raised her voice slightly and shook him harder. "Wake up!" He remained still. She huddled beside him, arms wrapped around her legs, chin on her knees.

Rain was hammering against the windows of the CID office. Morse looked at the book he'd been diligently studying in nearly every spare moment for the last several months. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he dropped it in, then closed the drawer with somewhat more force than necessary. He turned to the pile of paperwork on his desk and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. He supposed one good thing about being stuck on general duties for months was that his abysmal typing skills were starting to improve.

Fred Thursday was in CS Bright's office, discussing department business. "It's a tough break for DC Morse, but the rules are there to be followed," Bright told him.

"It's not as if he failed the exam. He would have taken it, and passed, if his father hadn't died when he did. He's absolutely gutted at missing it. It's a waste of his ability to leave him spinning his wheels on general duties for another year, sir." Fred took a deep draw on his pipe to calm himself. "Besides, I offered him the position as my bagman. I don't like going back on my word." _Even when it's due to circumstances beyond my control, like a blinkered ass blocking me at every turn._

"The extra experience will be good for him. His police skills have improved a great deal on general duties."

Jakes dumped several more files in Morse's in-basket. "Plenty of catching up to do. Shame about your exam. Tough break." His tone showed he felt absolutely no sympathy.

Morse drew a deep breath and ignored him, glancing through the new files and adding them to the work pile on his desk.

"Leave him alone, Jakes," DS Dixon said grimly from his desk near Morse's. He was older than either man, and tired of Jakes' juvenile antics. "Like to see you do better if your father passed. Now back to your work before the guv'nor sees you idling."

Fred called Morse into his office. "I'm afraid I have bad news."

"Bright-- CS Bright," Morse corrected himself, "still won't let me off general duties."

Fred sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right in one. I'm sorry, lad."

"Another year! I could pass the test in my sleep! I was doing general duties back at Carshall Newtown. What will it take for him to change his mind?"

"You passing the sergeant's exam."

Morse tightened his lips. Finally, he trusted himself to speak. "Do you know what the last thing was my father said to me? Asked if I was still with the police. When I said yes, he told me he'd never liked the police. That was it. 'I never liked the police.'" Morse hunched in on himself, hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "I'd have been better off staying here and taking the exam. Nothing I did ever pleased him, and Gwen certainly didn't want me underfoot. If it wasn't for my sister--" he sighed. "Water under the bridge now." He straightened. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have a basket of paperwork to get through."

Fred regretfully watched him leave. At this rate, he was going to come in one morning to find the same resignation letter that he'd retrieved from Crisp's desk months before. And they were going to lose a clever, and better yet with the nick's history, an incorruptible detective. 

Later, after everyone else from CID had left, Morse finished the last of the paperwork, put it where it was supposed to go, and started closing down the office, praying there wouldn't be a late call for a detective. He was tired, hungry, and cross and just wanted to go home. He opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out an envelope he'd tucked in the back months before. He turned it over in his hands. It was his way out. He hadn't seriously considered using it for ages, but the old restless dissatisfaction was gnawing at him once more. He tossed it irritably back in the drawer and left. He needed a drink.

 

The next day dawned sunny and clear. It was midmorning when a call came in. "Ramblers found a body in Bagley Wood," Morse reported to Fred with a wince. "It's a child."

"Oh god, I hate those," Fred answered heavily. "Who else is on it?"

"Sgt. Strange and Sgt. Thorpe, sir. DeBryn's on his way over."

"Let's go." For once Jakes didn't try to get the job away from Morse.

The little boy lying amidst the decaying leaves of winter almost looked like he was sleeping, except that he was too pale. Max DeBryn examined him gently. Morse watched out of the corner of his eye, while Fred's face was set in hard lines.

"I don't know much about kids," Strange ventured, "but the little lad looks awfully grubby to me. It could be from playing, but his clothes-- "

"They're filthy," Thorpe said. "And he's not dressed for the weather. My missus won't let our little'uns out without warm coats and mittens this time of year."

"It's not just dirt," DeBryn told them grimly. "He's dirty and unkempt, but a lot of what looks like dirt is actually bruises, gained over days. He's underweight as well. I don't see any obvious cause of death. I'll check for broken bones and internal injuries back at the lab." He gently wrapped the little body for transport and carried it to the black van himself.

 

Fred and Morse attended the autopsy that afternoon. From x-rays DeBryn had already catalogued a history of broken bones that had healed badly, showing a lack of medical attention. As the grim work progressed Fred twitched beside Morse, and he looked at the DI, finding him stoic but pale as death. "Sir?"

Dr. DeBryn looked up. "Go to my office. I'll put the kettle on. We all could use a break."

"We don't often get kids, thankfully," Fred said as they sat in the pathologist's office. "But when we do--" he took a long drink of tea. "How anyone could do that to a little one is beyond me, and I know from experience how frustrating it can be to raise kids."

"Oh, I know," DeBryn sighed. "Sometimes ours is such a pain in the arse we joke with each other about turning him in for a refund, if only we had a receipt."

Fred chuckled. "So did we. But then the little blighters go to sleep, and you take one look and forgive them everything."

"Or they bring you some little thing they made just for you with their own two hands, and the love on their faces is worth every grey hair. Case in point," Max gestured at a clay paperweight sitting atop his in-basket.

Morse had been looking at it. "What is it?"

"I was told by the artist that it is a duck. Despite the fact that it's bright blue and lacks more than a rudimentary bill." They all laughed, feeling some of the sadness abate.

Finally, regretfully, Fred rose. "Suppose we should get back to it then." 

DeBryn found evidence of serious illness. "Untreated infection, on top of malnutrition and the injuries. Death was caused by sepsis. The infection just overwhelmed his body." As the detectives started to leave, his voice turned deadly. "Find the bastard who did this."

Fred's tone was equally dark. "We will."


	2. Chapter 2

No one came forward in the area to report a missing child, or looking for one. "Not surprising," Fred growled at a CID meeting the next day. "Those who did it to him don't want to be found."

"What will be done with him?" Morse asked quietly.

"Unmarked pauper grave," Jakes said. Morse just shook his head.

That afternoon he went out to St. Elegius, the church where he'd solved the Wallace Clark case. There was a new vicar, who greeted his visitor warmly when Morse introduced himself. "You solved the murder of my predecessor," Ian Thompson told him. "You're always welcome in this parish, detective."

"Thanks. I'm afraid police work isn't good for one's faith in a benevolent creator."

Thompson nodded. "I understand. I was an army chaplain during the war. Believe me, I've got a list of questions for Himself when it's my turn."

"We've got a case right now. A tiny boy, no more than four years old, found in Bagley Wood, badly abused and neglected. If he's unclaimed, as is likely--" he shook his head. "I was wondering what a space in the churchyard would cost. I don't know if he was Anglican-- "

Thompson's eyes softened. "Don't worry about it. He's our Father's child regardless. I'll talk to the parish board. I'm sure we can find space for the lad."

"Thank you."

At his desk the next morning, Morse took a call from Thompson. Not only was the parish donating a space, but the vicar had also spoken to an undertaker who would donate a casket and preparation. He wasted no time letting Fred know. "They're donating everything else. I thought perhaps a collection for a marker. Just a little one, seeing as we don't know his name."

"I'll put the word out. It's a good thing you're doing, Morse." Fred started the collection with a five-pound note. "And hopefully we'll know his name in time."

Morse returned to his desk just in time for Strange to come hurrying in. "Got a primary schoolteacher worried about a missing kid."

Morse was immediately on alert. "Our boy?"

"No, a girl of six, obviously neglected. But get this-- she talked about having a little brother nearly four years old. And she stopped showing up for class on Tuesday."

"The day before we found the body." Morse followed Strange out to the lobby, where a pretty young woman with long red hair was waiting. He extended his hand. "I'm DC Morse. I'd like to talk to you about your missing child."

The young woman's grey eyes went wide. "Have you found her? Something horrible's happened to her, hasn't it?"

"No, Miss-- "

"Reddington. Fiona Reddington."

"Miss Reddington, if you'll just follow me, we can speak in one of the interview rooms. Can I get you a cup of tea?"

Once Fiona Reddington was settled at the table with her tea, Morse asked her what was going on to worry her so. "Lucy Keane's always been very quiet. Little mouse of a girl. She never talks about her parents. Doesn't draw them, either, like children usually do. It's all fairytale things, castles and gardens, with her and her little brother Danny holding hands in them." She sighed. "One can tell she's neglected. Unkempt, clothes need washing and mending. She hasn't got lunch more often than not. The staff always make sure she has something, even if we end up splitting ours with her. We've tried to help, but we're worried about making things worse for her at home. She was at school on Monday, but we haven't seen her since. I know it's only kin allowed to make missing-person reports, but someone needs to look out for her."

"Did you ever see the brother?"

"No. I never even saw her parents drop her off."

"Can you describe her?"

"I can do better than that." Fiona pulled a photo from a folder she carried. It was a group picture of her with about fifteen children, a board in the foreground reading _Miss Reddington's Year Two Class 1965-66_. "That's Lucy Keane right there."

Morse looked. The girl bore a strong resemblance to the child in the morgue. "May I keep this for now?"

"Of course."

Morse wrapped up the interview and told her they would look into it. After seeing her out, he took the class photo and his notes to Fred. He told the older man what he'd learned, and showed him the photo. 

"She does resemble our boy, doesn't she?"

"I thought so, sir."

"You get the family's contact info from the school, and then I'll send a couple of officers around to do a welfare check."

Morse went straight to the primary school, where the secretary was more than happy to help him. "That poor little mite. Always looks like a lost soul."

"Did you ever see her brother?"

"I'm afraid not." She wrote down the Keane address and the names of the parents. An older woman came out of an adjoining office.

"What's going on?"

"He's from the police, headmistress. They're looking into Lucy Keane."

"It's about time! I notified children's services about that child. I've raised my own and been a teacher and administrator for thirty years, and I know what a neglected child looks like."

"Fiona Reddington came to us, said she's been out of school since Tuesday?"

"Yes," the secretary answered. "I've called them every morning since to see where she was. There hasn't been any answer."

The headmistress asked him into her office, closing the door. "Do you think the child from Bagley Wood is connected to this?" she asked quietly. "I haven't said anything in the staff lounge-- no one has. I think we're all afraid of saying it aloud."

"We really don't know yet, ma'am."

"Find Lucy. If she goes into care, we have a staff member already qualified to take in children."

"We'll do our best. May I use your phone?"

"Of course."

Morse called in the information, asking to get constables there quickly. He had returned to the station when Strange called from the Keane residence.

"The flat is a tip. Absolutely filthy. And it looks like they cleared out in a hurry."

Morse reported the development to Thursday, and soon the two of them were on their way to the flat.

If anything, Strange had understated the condition of the place. It stank of rotting food, dirty laundry, unwashed bodies, and used nappies. It was a dark, disgusting hole. They'd left quite a bit behind, including clothing sized to fit at least two small children, boy and girl. There were no toys. Morse spotted a child's drawing tacked low on the wall of one foul bedroom. It was of a field of flowers, a long-haired girl and a smaller boy holding hands in the center, a cheery yellow sun above them. Underneath, in childish printing, was _Lucy and Danny_. He carefully unpinned it.

"The neighbors said they kept to themselves. They never saw the boy, and only saw the girl going to and from school," Strange reported. "The Keanes didn't say anything about moving out. We have the landlord's contact information."

Back at the station, Morse went straight to his desk and picked up his phone to contact the landlord, too intent on his work to respond to Jakes' latest snide comment. Fred watched him for a long moment, then went into his office and started prepping his pipe. He smoked and thought, until he came to a decision. He put out his pipe and left his office. "If anyone needs me, I'll be down in the file room," he told Morse.

"Yes, sir."

In the file room, Fred started locating and pulling files. Once he'd gathered what he needed, he returned to his office and went through them, pulling individual notes and reports from each one. Then he went to the main office, where a small army of secretaries and clerks worked.

"Can I help you, DI Thursday?" One of the secretaries had approached.

"Hello, Irene. I need to have some copies made."

"I can take care of that for you. How many do you need?"

"Let's do two of each page, so I can keep a set for myself."

"I'll bring it to your office when it's ready."

"Actually, ring me and I'll collect it myself. Thanks, Irene."

He returned to his office to find Morse awaiting him. "I spoke to the landlord."

"And?"

"The Keanes left without giving notice or a forwarding address."

"Looks more and more like they have something to hide," Fred observed.

"I also checked public records. That was the only listed address for the parents."

"Perhaps it's time to call in the power of the press, Morse. Get a photo of the boy's face and a description of him. See if they can isolate and enlarge Lucy Keane's image from that class photo her teacher gave you. Take them to Dorothea Frazil and ask her to run a story that we're looking for witnesses, and that the Keanes are wanted for questioning. Even if Danny Keane turns out not to be our John Doe, that flat wasn't fit for rats, much less children. They may have gone to ground, but someone has to have seen them."

Morse put together a press release that asked for information on the whereabouts of John and Judy Keane and their daughter Lucy, who hadn't been seen in a week, along with any information on the boy who'd been found. He hurried to the offices of the Oxford Mail, hoping to get there in time for the next day's paper.

"Inspector Thursday called and said you were bringing me a story," Dorothea Frazil greeted him.

"We're trying to find a couple who've disappeared with at least one child, as well as information on the small boy we found."

"Are they connected?"

"We're starting to think so, but we're not sure. So if you could avoid making it sound like the Keanes killed our Doe--"

"I understand. I'll be careful." She looked at the photos. "They do look related, don't they?" Side by side, the resemblance was remarkable. "I'll write something up for the morning edition."

"Thank you."

"What's going to happen with the boy?"

"We've got a donated grave and coffin. We're raising money at the station for a headstone, even if we have to label it Unknown."

Dorothea opened her purse and handed him a few one-pound notes. "Here's my contribution."

While Morse was at the newspaper, Fred was busy assembling two dossiers with the copies he'd just received from Irene. One set of papers went into a file in his desk, while the other went into a large envelope. While he worked, he started drafting a cover letter in his head. By the time he'd finished and returned the originals to the file room, he had something worth scribbling out. After a bit of editing, he rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter and started typing. He didn't like going around his immediate superior, but in his opinion Bright was being ridiculous.

The CID office had emptied out by the time he'd finished and slipped the letter inside the envelope. Even Morse had finished and left for the day. Fred was about to leave when his phone rang. He sighed and answered it. "DI Thursday." 

It was Dorothea Frazil with a few questions. After he'd answered those, she mentioned one more thing. "Morse said the station's putting together a funeral for the little boy."

"Actually it was Morse's idea. He didn't like the thought of the little lad going into an unmarked common grave. He got the grave donated, and the vicar got the casket and offered to do the service. Now he's got a notice up on the station bulletin board for donations to cover the cost of a stone."

"He mentioned that, but didn't say a word that he'd organized it. I gave him a donation toward the stone."

"Well that's kind of you."

"Now get out of there before they roust you out on a late call, Inspector Thursday."

He laughed. "I could say the same to you."

"Late nights and odd hours are an occupational hazard for journalists, I'm afraid."

"Coppers, too."


	3. Chapter 3

Dorothea Frazil's story was on the front page of the next morning's _Mail_. Morse was running late, so he hadn't had time to do more than glance at the copy he picked up on his way to the bus. Thus he was nonplussed to find Jakes in rare form when he arrived at the CID office.

"Well if it isn't St. Morse, patron of lost children," he sneered.

Morse, who had slept through his alarm and then had to rush to get ready, inhaled breakfast, barely caught the bus, and was nursing a touch of indigestion as a result, was not in the mood. "What are you on about now?"

"As if you didn't know. Splashed all over the front page." He thrust a copy of the morning _Oxford Mail_ under Morse's nose.

"Got my own copy, thanks," Morse answered mock-cheerfully. "Haven't had a chance to look at it yet."

"I don't believe you. Anything to get yourself in the papers."

"Not likely. Last time I was in the papers, a serial murderer took an interest in me, or had you forgotten?" Morse skimmed the stories; Dorothea had written separate ones. The first asked for information on the missing Keane family without mentioning alleged abuse, while the second simply asked for help identifying Little Boy Doe, as the _Mail_ called him. It wasn't until he neared the end of the second story that a soft curse left his lips. "Where'd she get that? I didn't tell her any of that, just that space and a casket were donated, and we're putting together the money for a stone."

"Still not believing you."

"Well you ought to," Fred said firmly, having just come into the room. "I'm the one told her it was Morse's idea. Give credit where credit's due, I say." He was taking off hat and overcoat as he spoke.

"Duty officer said you didn't need to be picked up today," Jakes said.

"Had an errand to run on my way in."

"I could've taken you."

"Personal errand. Any calls about the articles yet?"

"We've had a couple," DS Dixon said. "Nothing on the case, just wanted to donate to the headstone fund." The expression on Jakes' face was priceless. "Just think Petey, if you'd thought of it, you'd be hero of the hour."

A call came in that afternoon. Dixon took it, growing more excited as he listened. "Thank you very much, sir. We'll be right out to look into it." He turned to Morse. "Chap says a couple with a girl matching Lucy Keane's description are squatting in an old cottage near Shotover. It's on his neighbor's property, and the neighbor's in Nova Scotia visiting family. He contacted the neighbor to make sure he hadn't given them permission to be there, then called us."

Fred, Morse, and Jakes were already putting on their coats. Dixon grabbed his and followed them out. Strange and Thorpe were assigned to accompany them.

The cottage was old, whitewash largely worn away, roof battered by the elements. The patch of land around it was overgrown by now-dead grasses, the path to the front door almost indistinguishable from the rest. They maneuvered the three police cars so that they formed a sort of triangle around the cottage, covering any escape routes. Then they crept up to the house, covering the two windows, while Fred and Morse went to the front door. Fred rapped loudly.

"Police! Open up!" They could hear scurrying inside, punctuated by thuds and crashes. Then they could hear Jakes and Dixon nick one person, and a moment later, there was a crash from the side. Morse threw his shoulder into the door twice, breaking it open. In the dim one-room cottage, they could see Strange and Thorpe wrestling a man out of a window. Outside the second window Jakes and Dixon had subdued a woman.

Morse and Fred both became aware of frantic sobbing. It was Morse who spotted the little girl huddled in a corner, abandoned by her parents as they tried to flee. Forgetting his usual discomfort around children, he approached her cautiously and crouched down to look less threatening. "Lucy? Lucy, it's okay. No one is going to hurt you." He spoke in the gentlest tones he could manage. Lucy raised her tearstained little face to his. He held out a hand to her, not touching, but within reach. "We're the police. I'm sorry we scared you. I promise we won't hurt you."

"What's your name?"

"Morse."

"What are they doing with Mum and Poppa? Are they taking them away?" Her soft little voice took on a terrified edge. "Please don't take them away! I'll be good! I promise I'll be good! Don't leave me here! It's scary and cold!"

"We're taking you with us. We wouldn't leave you here. I promise." Desperate to ease her fear, or at least distract her, Morse rummaged in his suit pocket, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. He opened it. "Did you draw this?"

"My picture!" She launched herself from her hiding place to take the drawing that he'd found in the filthy flat. "I drew this in school for Danny, to make him feel better. Is he with you?"

He hated to dim the hope shining in her eyes. "No, I'm sorry."

"Oh. He was really sick. I drew this for him and told him about the magic garden, where the flowers never die and nobody gets sick. Then he went to sleep, and he wouldn't wake up. Poppa took him away, and then we came here."

It was the matter-of-factness with which she spoke that broke them. Jakes cuffed John Keane round the ear.

"Oi! That's police brutality!"

"Shut your gob. Just wait 'til you get to prison. What _they_ do to people who hurt small kids-- _that's_ brutality." Jakes looked satisfied when Keane blanched.

Thorpe glared at Judy Keane. "My missus would go without herself, before she'd let our little'uns miss a meal."

"I never wanted kids!"

"So you buy a shilling box of French letters to stop 'em coming, or you give 'em to people who want kids but can't have 'em, you heartless bint. Come on." He and Strange hauled her off to one car, while Jakes and Dixon took her husband to theirs.

Lucy was wide-eyed. "Are they in trouble?"

"Big trouble," Morse told her. "Parents are supposed to take care of their kids and not hurt them. It makes other grownups very angry." Lucy looked amazed at the idea. "Would you like to come with us? We'll get you something to eat."

Her eyes lit up. "Do you have cheese sandwiches?"

"We can get you some. We can probably get some crayons and paper on the way, if you'd like." If nothing else, it would distract her and pass the time while they booked her parents and called children's services.

"Can we? I haven't been able to draw since we came here. I only get to draw at school." She slipped her little hand into Morse's and let him lead her from the cottage. Her worn, thin clothes were no match to the weather, so he gathered her up in his arms to carry her to the car, tucking her inside his coat. He could feel her snuggle into the warmth, relaxing against him. Fred went ahead of him to turn on the Jaguar and get the heater running.

They stopped for crayons and a tablet of plain paper on the way, Lucy clinging to Morse's hand in the shop. She was ecstatic at having her "very own box of crayons!" Once at the station, Morse settled Lucy at a table in the canteen with her drawing materials while Fred and Jakes questioned her parents. She had latched onto him, so it seemed the best thing to have him stay with her. Besides, and Morse felt a coward for it, he didn't think he could stomach any more details of what had happened to Danny or this sweet, unexpectedly trusting little girl who was so thrilled by crayons and drawing paper.

The dinner ladies, grandmotherly types who tended to consider Morse too thin and absolutely piled his plate with food when he ate at the canteen, recognized Lucy and sent over cocoa to start, which she'd never had before and absolutely loved, along with a cup of tea for Morse. Later came a cheese sandwich with the crusts cut off and a cup of mixed fruit.

"Everyone's so nice here. I don't know why Poppa doesn't like police," she said as she drew an elaborate castle with turrets and banners, surrounded by a garden full of flowers. She talked as she drew, her chatter revealing, among the wonders of Year Two and Miss Reddington, matter-of-fact stories of her parents' neglect and abuse that made Morse pull out his notebook and start jotting them down. "But Danny couldn't help it-- he's little," she finished an anecdote as she finished the drawing.

Two hours after they'd arrived back at the station, Morse went in search of Fred. "How did the interviews go?"

"Danny Keane is our boy in the morgue. Jakes and I managed not to throw either of them out of a window," the DI said darkly. "Or smash anyone's head against a wall. Those poor kids. The little lad had the worst of it though. Lucy's lucky to be out of there. Where is she?"

"Fiona Reddington and another teacher Lucy knows came in with the social worker. The other teacher and her husband have been taking in children who're in care since their own grew up and moved out. They had space."

"She won't be with strangers then. That's good."

"They were taking her to Radcliffe Hospital for an exam to document everything they can. It sounds like Fiona Reddington's going to get certified so Lucy can stay with her eventually. I told them I'd let them know when the funeral is. I'll ring Ian Thompson and find out when he can do it and order the headstone."

"Have we got enough for it?"

"We should, with a simple inscription."

"What's that?" Fred asked, nodding at Morse's desk.

He turned slightly pink. "Gift from Lucy." It was the first drawing she'd made in the canteen, of the turreted castle. It was propped against his in-box.

"Signed by the artist, I see." _To Morse From Lucy_ was carefully printed along the bottom.

"She said my name was much easier to spell than Miss Reddington's. I'm sure Jakes will outdo himself taking the mickey for it."

"After the interviews we just did, I doubt he'll say a word."

Fred was right. When he returned to the room Peter Jakes just glanced at the picture, blinked hard, and focused on clearing off the bulletin board where they'd posted the case while working it.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later a group gathered at St. Elegius, mostly from the station, with a few members of the parish and the community. Dorothy Frazil attended.

"I'm just going to put a small item in that he was laid to rest today," she told Fred Thursday. She looked at the front of the church, where a small casket stood. "The tiny ones are the worst. Coffins should only be adult-sized. I covered that bus crash several years ago outside Abingdon. The primary-school trip that killed all those children."

"I remember that. I was one of them called to the scene three months later when the bus driver killed himself."

Morse was still outside. "Morse! Morse!" After a moment's confusion he turned around to the source of the piping little voice. Lucy Keane was nearly unrecognizable. She was clean and glossy-haired, her bruises fading, and dressed warmly in a blue woolen coat and mittens and a somber dress. She was clutching Fiona Reddington's hand and waving at him with her free one.

He knelt to be closer to her level. "How are you?"

"Okay, I guess. Miss Reddington explained to me that Danny went to heaven, and he'll never be sick or sad again. I'm happy about that, but I miss him. Sometimes I can't stop crying."

"That's what we do when someone we love leaves us. We're sad and we miss them, but we keep loving them and the sadness gets easier to bear," Fiona told her gently.

"She's right. Have you been drawing?"

"All the time. I made one for Danny to take with him." She held out a drawing that was obviously of herself, with _Danny I Love You, from Lucy_ printed beneath it. "So he won't forget me."

"He won't forget his big sister, who took care of him and loves him," Morse told her, barely trusting his voice. "Shall I put it with him for you?"

"Yes, please."

After placing the drawing beside Danny Keane and re-closing the casket, Morse stepped out of the church through a side door. He leaned against the church wall and wished he had a drink in his hand.

"You going to be able to get through this?" It was Jakes, smoking yet another cigarette. The usual derisive note was in his voice, but it sounded tired somehow, like an old formality that had lost its meaning. Morse hadn't noticed him there, or he'd have chosen another exit.

"Lucy Keane gave me a drawing to put in the coffin so Danny won't forget her."

"Shit." Jakes finished his cigarette, viciously smashing the end into a pot of sand standing by the door. "Shame we got rid of the death penalty. Those rotten sacks of shit deserve the rope for what they've done. And now that poor kid's in care. God knows what will happen to her."

"She's been placed with one of the teachers at her school who's already certified, and Fiona Reddington's getting certified to take her."

"That's probably the only good thing to come out of this sick mess." Jakes went back into the church, and Morse followed.

The service was simple. Lucy's eyes shone when Reverend Thompson told her that her magic garden was real, and that Danny was safe there, waiting for her after she'd lived a long and happy life. She leaned against Fiona Reddington, keeping still as his talk went serious and grown up, something about mysteries and despair and a light that never goes out. She didn't understand it, but the adults seemed to.

When the service finished Morse, Thursday, Strange, and DeBryn shouldered the small casket, carrying it from the church. Fiona Reddington and Lucy Keane followed. The rest of the CID, Thorpe and a fair number of the uniformed police, and CS Bright fell into step behind. Dorothea Frazil and a few other staff from the primary school and the station brought up the rear.

Reverend Thompson said a few more words at the grave, then it was time to lower the coffin into the ground. Instead of handfuls of earth, small branches of evergreen were dropped in. People began to drift away to the church hall. Morse stayed, looking at the tombstone, which read

Daniel Keane  
1962-1966  
Beloved Brother

He took a small envelope from his suit jacket, tore it into fourths, and dropped it in. It was time to put his doubts to rest. He wasn't going to resign now, whatever Bright put him through. He'd helped put a name to a little boy thrown away like rubbish, found Lucy before she could suffer the same fate as her brother, and would see to it that the Keanes were prosecuted for what they'd done. He could put up with paying his dues, if it meant keeping monsters away from the innocent.

Lucy crept up silently beside him, slipping one mitten-covered little hand into his. She said nothing, just stood beside him. Finally she spoke. "I miss Danny, but if he's in the prettiest garden ever, like the man said, and he'll never be sick or hurt again, I guess it's okay." After a little while longer, she tugged at his hand. "Come on. They said there's cocoa in the hall. We don't want to miss that." He let himself be led into the church hall.

 

The next morning Fred called Morse into his office. "We have a meeting with the Chief Constable this afternoon."

Morse felt the blood drain from his face. "What did Bright tell him?"

"Stop panicking. It's nothing to do with Bright. Close the door and pull up a chair." Fred lit his pipe while the younger man did as told. "You know how hard I've been trying to get CS Bright to agree to you being my bagman. I decided that, while the rules are there for a reason, this time they need to be bent a bit. I hired you as bagman, and you'd be a sergeant right now if it wasn't for that bit of rotten luck with your father. It's silly to have you spin your wheels for another year on general duties. So I put together a file with the highlights of several cases we've had that we wouldn't have solved without you and took it to the Chief Constable last week. We had a chat, I laid out my case, and he said he'd look at the file and let me know. I got a call from him this morning. He'd like to meet with you."

Morse was overwhelmed. "You did that for me? Bright won't be happy."

"No, but that doesn't give him the right to hold you back. I understand why they assigned this station a stickler for the rules, what with what was going on around here before, but you're a gifted detective. And your police work has improved dramatically. You're ready, Morse."

"Thank you, sir." Then he thought of something else. "Jakes will never shut up about it. Between him and Bright, I should just wait out the year. It's fine. Be over before we know it."

"Morse. It's already done," Fred told him firmly. "You let me worry about Bright. And Jakes just has his nose out of joint because he thought he was the next in line for the job. He needs to learn that it's about more than seniority. And even if it wasn't, Dixon's been a DS longer."

"Dixon's not interested. He's happy where he is."

"I know that. He gets to bring my wet-behind-the-ears DCs along and enjoys it. He knows you've got a talent for the work."

The Chief Constable was a ruddy, silver-haired man with a genial yet no-nonsense manner. It turned out that he'd met Fred when he was Chief Superintendent at Cowley, back when Fred had first transferred in from London. "Easiest hire I ever made. When a DI from Scotland Yard wants to join my nick, I'm not going to say no."

He talked to Morse and Fred both, watching how they interacted, seeing how well they worked together. It was something he'd noticed in reading the case files: often they'd both arrived at the same deduction from different paths, or one would link his idea with the other's and together achieve more than either could alone. Their thought processes meshed like gears. Given time working together, and Morse's skills honed by training and experience, they could make a formidable team. Then he sent Fred out of his office so he could talk to Morse alone. The young man was awkward and nervous, but much of that would likely fade with maturity and experience. The sharp intellect and ability to remember and draw from a breadth of knowledge unusual in a copper was a tremendous asset. And in a university town like Oxford, having a detective who knew his way around that world and that sort of people, who could speak their language, could be dead useful. It already had been more than once, according to the file sitting on his desk.

"There's no way I can give you a sergeant's exam off the schedule. But if I threw a mock one at you, how d'you think you'd do?"

"I'd pass. I've been studying non-stop for months. I was caught mumbling statutes and codes in my sleep a few months ago."

The chief laughed. "I can do a mock exam for you. It'd give us an idea how you'd do. Of course, you'd still have to pass the real exam later."

"Oh-- all right, sir. Did you want to do it now?"

"I wouldn't do that to you. Come here first thing Friday morning. We'll time you; I'll have my assistant proctor it. You pass that, I'll sign off on you being Fred's bagman as a DC."

"Thank you, sir."

"See you then. And Morse?"

"Yes?"

"That was a good thing you did for the Keane boy."

Morse shrugged. "It wasn't really anything. I just made a call. It took off on its own."

"But you're the one who thought of it and saw it through. That makes all the difference."

"Oh-- well-- thank you, sir." 

 

Saturday morning a large envelope was sent to Fred's office by messenger. He opened it, looked at the contents, and grinned. "Morse!"

The younger man hurried in. "Sir?"

"You didn't just pass that mock exam-- you aced it. The chief sent over your results and a letter for your personnel file. He's calling CS Bright to personally approve your position as my assistant. That's good. He'll be able to present it in such a way that Bright won't feel like he's lost face. He's always had a gift with that."

Morse wasn't sure if he felt more like falling into a chair or dancing around Fred's office like an idiot. He was elated and weak-kneed at the same time.

There was a sharp rap on the door. "Thursday? I'd like a word with you."

Weak-kneed was definitely winning out. "I'll be at my desk, sir. Mr. Bright," Morse nodded at the little man as he slipped past. He collapsed into his desk chair as he heard Fred say, "don't blame the lad, sir. It was all my own doing." Then the door closed.

"The Chief Constable put forth some excellent arguments for having someone who knows his way around university types," Bright admitted. "But I don't want to see his police work fall off, Thursday. He's been doing so much better of late."

"I know, sir. He's learning the value of good police work to a detective. And I'll keep his nose to that particular grindstone."

"He also said Morse earned an extremely high score on a mock sergeants' exam. He would have passed with flying colors, were it not for his father's death. And he was already impressed with Morse's shooting test." Bright pursed his lips. "I'm still not happy about this, Thursday. He's clever, but he has a great deal to learn."

"We all did when we were starting out."

"Indeed. But the chief constable has made his opinion on the matter known, as have you. It's on your head, Thursday. I just hope you haven't overestimated the boy." Bright turned to leave.

"I don't believe I have, sir."

Morse kept his head down as Bright left, hitting a personal all-time speed record for typing. He kept working on the report until Fred appeared at his desk. Lifting his head, all he said was, "Sir?" but his expressive eyes filled in the rest.

"He's not chuffed by any means, but he isn't going to fight it. Just keep your police work up, and for heaven's sake keep me in the loop with your side investigations and theorizing."

"I will, sir."

"And if I tell you to look into the history of one of your damsels in distress, I expect you to be as thorough as if I asked you to dig up dirt on Jakes."

" _Can_ I dig up dirt on Jakes, sir?"

"Cheeky monkey. Finish that car theft report yet?" Morse handed him the file. "I'll take you to the local for lunch to celebrate."

Later, full of a good lunch and real ale, Morse sipped his second pint pensively.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Morse seemed to shake himself from his reverie. "Just wishing I could've taken the sergeants' exam for real."

"You'll take it and pass when it comes round."

Morse sighed. "I know when Dad said he'd never liked the police, he wasn't directing it at me personally. Or maybe he was. Probably thought I'd gone over to the other side. He blamed the police, you see. For my mum."

Fred was surprised to find the younger man in such an open mood. Usually he was close-mouthed about his past and personal life. He nodded, encouraging.

"You know she died when I was twelve. She was murdered, actually." Fred felt his heart sink. "The police never caught whoever did it. He never forgave them for that. And I never forgave him for not being there when she needed him." A long drink of ale. "He'd gambled away enough of his money at the track that month that he had to take extra shifts with the cab just to cover the rent. He was working late that night when Mum realized we were out of something we needed for breakfast; I can't even remember what it was. Normally he'd have gone out for it. The nearby shops were closed, but there was one on the other side of town that stayed open until eleven. It was a school night, so she sent me to bed and left. When I awoke the next morning, he was home but she wasn't. The police found her body two days later."

Fred didn't know what to say, so he fell back on what he had. "If you ever want to reopen the case, let me know. I can talk to whoever's in charge of the nick up there, see if we can get a copy of the case file sent over."

Morse managed a half-smile. "Thanks, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I think that's one sleeping dog I'd like to leave alone."

Later, as they left the pub, Fred watched Morse walk away in the light drizzle that had started, waiting until the younger man rounded the corner before he turned away and started on his own way home.


End file.
